


Collecting like cards

by MorteMistrata



Series: Witchersexual Jaskier is Valid [1]
Category: Wiedźmin | The Witcher - All Media Types
Genre: M/M, Multi, also i should finish my other fic first but, and jaskier is witcher sexual, geralt was an ass, i barfed 3k words so here you go, jaskier does not want to see geralt but geralt misses him
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-06-20
Updated: 2020-07-07
Packaged: 2021-03-04 00:02:22
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 4,603
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24824281
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/MorteMistrata/pseuds/MorteMistrata
Summary: Jaskier is tired of waiting for Geralt's apology, so when another witcher brings word that Geralt is finally ready, well, Jaskier isn't quite so amenable to accept it. Instead, he finds himself traveling with Lambert, a son of bitch, and complete bastard that still manages to make Jaskier feel happier than he has in ages. When the time comes, will he reconcile with Geralt, or move on?
Relationships: Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia/Jaskier | Dandelion, Jaskier | Dandelion/Lambert
Series: Witchersexual Jaskier is Valid [1]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1820257
Comments: 37
Kudos: 185





	1. Meeting Lambert

**Author's Note:**

> So,,,, if you've followed my other Witcher story, Songbird, you'll know just how much I love harem tropes,,,, and also how much I hate the direction some of these cliches have gone in fandom. I hope you enjoy this this as much as I enjoyed writing it. Don't forget to read and review!

Jaskier does not think about the potential repercussions of breaking the lute across the back of the dumbass’ head until the broken body of his borrowed instrument clatters on the floor. The sound is loud, much louder than one would ever expect in a full tavern, and he realizes quite suddenly, that everyone around him is silent. 

Drunken gazes surround him, most held somewhere between confusion and ambience. Jaskier supposes that it really shouldn’t have been all that surprising that he would hit a bitch who would think to speak badly of the man he’s spent the past twenty years following. Of course, he hasn’t seen said man in a while, and is still plenty mad at him for his rude treatment the last time they’d met, but the point still stands. Don’t talk shit about his witcher.

The young bardling who’d insisted he play using his lute, in some misguided form of hero worship, looks shocked. His mouth is held open in a perfect ‘o’, his youthful eyes spread wide before narrowing in anger. 

“My lute!” He steps forward, telegraphing his left hook in such an obvious way that even Jaskier, a man who defines himself as a lover, not a fighter, manages to avoid.

Jaskier dodges it easily, stepping back to provide enough room for an escape. It is then, with his back pressed to the bar, between a man asleep in his bowl of stew, and another with his hand resting on the hilt of his long knife, that he realizes that that might be easier said than done. The crowd which had been happy and very interested in his song and performance is now mixed, split almost evenly between ambivlant interest, and simmering anger. 

“This has been a very nice night and all,” Jaskier says placatingly as he steps forward, and then side steps to the left where the counter splits to reveal a small doorway for servers to step through. “And you are all such lovely folk, but I think I’ll be taking my leave now.”

The brother of the man he’s just knocked out steps forward. He’s large, six feet tall, if not more, but sways on his feet like a tree in the wind. Jaskier smiles uneasily, thankful that this moment came late in the night when most everyone is most thuroughly sloshed. 

“Not yet,” The man cautions, rolling up his sleeve. Tattoos trail up his forearm in nautical patterns. Skellige patterns, to be exact. That’s nice to know. The man won’t kill him then, just rough him up until Jaskier wishes he were. “Not until you pay for what you’ve done to me poor brother.”

Jaskier takes a step back, then another until his back hits against the unmistakable solidity of another tall man, who takes his moment of hesitation to grasp onto his upper arm.

So yes, he should’ve thought further ahead. He’ll be sure to keep that in mind the next time he thinks about protecting Geralt’s honor.

The hand tugs backwards, and Jaskier prepares to jab the splintering neck of his borrowed lute upwards into his assaulter's chin, when he realizes that the man holding him has yellow eyes. Yellow eyes, Geralt, witcher. The pieces fall together so quickly that Jaskier doesn’t even bother to stop and think that  _ hey, I don’t actually know this man, and perhaps should choose my battles more wisely next time _ . Instead, he lets himself be dragged to, and then unceremoniously shoved over the counter of the bar, right beside the sleeping man and his soup. 

The witcher makes a movement with his hand, and the sleeping man stands, chunks of meat still clinging to his beard, and swings at the brother of the man Jaskier had just knocked out. As the witcher pulls him through the door behind the counter, Jaskier notes shouting behind them. Thankfully, it seems that once out of sight, Jaskier is not a target for the brawl he’s undoubtedly started. 

One door leads to another, and then they’re outside in the henhouse, crouching amongst the birds and shit as the Witcher who is not Geralt cuts a flap into the thin, wood siding. 

“Not that I’m ungrateful for being extricated from that,” Jaskier gestures vaguely at the tavern as if it were a cheap whorehouse and not an establishment he had lauded as ‘the best this side of Novigrad’ mere hours earlier. “But you are?”

“Saving your ass.”

Jaskier has to pause, a scathing comeback on the tip of his tongue as he remembers, this is his rescuer from what was sure to be a very painful beating, and also, said rescuer doesn’t look totally enamoured with the concept of rescuing. Fine. So he’ll let it pass.

“Why thank you, Sir Saving-Your-Ass,” Jaskier says, ducking through the wooden hole. It takes a very undignified sort of waddle to get through without having shit all over his knees, but he makes it, and then returns the favor as the witcher tosses first one sword, then another, through the opening. “For your services. Now, do you intend to abandon me halfway through this rescue, or will I be coming with you to your Keep of Bullshit?”

The witcher ducks through, and looks up at Jaskier unimpressedly. 

This witcher has a scar. 

Or rather, they all have scars, most everywhere, but this witcher has a scar on the right side of his face, long and very narrowly missing his eye. Jaskier wishes he could say he wasn’t a whore for scars and scary eyes, but what would be the point? He’s sure that Mr. Scary Witcher can smell the beginnings of lust amidst the gratefulness and lingering high of almost combat. Geralt had always made sure to remind him of how sensitive his nose was after Jaskier reappeared from someone else’s embrace.

“This?” Mr. Scary Witcher scoffs, dusting an errant feather off of his shoulder. “Not a rescue. Not for your sake, anyhow. Geralt would kill me if I just sat and watched you get pummeled to a pulp by drunks in some nameless bar. A favor for a friend.” He asserts. “That’s all.”

“Sure,” Jaskier says, realizing that he’s left all of his belongings in the attic room he’s been renting for half off. He glances up at the window, just above the roof of the chicken coop. “Would you mind doing a favor for a friend of a friend then?”

The Witcher places his swords back in place, and crosses his arms. He’s not leaving, so it’s as good a reason as any to continue on. 

“Grab my bag from the attic? My lute is up there, and all of my other things.” Grumpy face looks up and then back to Jaskier. He doesn’t look keen to do it. “If you don’t, I’ll have to, and I’ll definitely trip and fall and become horribly maimed in the process.”

A smile plays at the corners of the witcher’s mouth. He uncrosses his arms, rolls his shoulders. “While I think that would be a hilarious thing to witness, I suppose it’s not worth Geralt’s ire all winter.”

And as if the climb were nothing at all, Jaskier watches as he jumps, catching himself on the edge of the roof, and pulls himself to his feet. Another jump, with a landing like a cat, though any other man would’ve sounded like a sack of potatoes, or a dead body falling, brings him to the window. He crawls inside quickly, with a semblance of dignity that Jaskier could never hope to keep in such a position, and then back out, clutching Jaskier’s travel gear and lute case in his other hand. 

The way back down is just as quick, though apparently garners more attention, as by the time Lambert is back down, a swaying man with a pitchfork is rounding the corner. As if they’d done this a thousand times before, he thrusts Jaskier’s items into his arms, calls his horse from the darkness, and swings onto the saddle, pulling Jaskier up right after. 

Jaskier fits snugly between his broad back and the saddlebags piled high on the horse’s rump, and if his fingers linger at the witcher’s waist a little too long to be proper, well, he can always blame it on the not-Roach’s sudden canter into the trees. 

“You’re a liar,” Jaskier says, once the light of the tavern is lost to the distance, and there’s no one else around to hear. “There’s no way you would've known that I knew Geralt just by me starting a fight. And you were only there for a moment- I would’ve noticed a dark, brooding type in the corner.”

“And is there a point to your accusation or do you just enjoy the sound of your own voice?”

“Both can be true,” Jaskier says. There’s a place that’s clearly served as a campground before up ahead, flat grass and trees lining it like a fairy circle. The scary witcher comes to a stop there, and disembarks, nearly knocking Jaskier off in the process. 

“And?”

Jaskier pauses as he steps down more carefully, patting the horse’s rump softly in thanks for their speedy retreat. “And I think you heard what started the fight, and then realized who I was after.”

“There aren’t all that many bards starting fights over drunks calling the White Wolf a son of a whore butcher who can’t determine the difference between a-”

“Well, yes,” Jaskier says, interrupting before he can finish the whole, creative thing. Honestly, he hadn’t expected such a variety of words from an illeterate pig farmer, but he digresses. “I suppose there aren’t that many bards taking the ‘Witcher’s bard’ role so seriously. But I’m not Geralt’s anything. We left on not so great terms some time ago, and I’m not keen on forgiving him at this particular moment.”

“One could argue that asking around for you counts as being his ‘something’. A friend, at least.”

Jaskier walks a few steps away, drops his things unceremoniously, and scowls. His scowling skills are rather good at this point, after spending years performing, and acting and lying his way out of confrontations. Not on point with a witcher’s scowling, but seeing as to how his expression has shifted to one of amusement, there’s no real competition around. 

“Oh? Is that so?” Jaskier marches over, hands curled into fists by his side. He’s not going to do anything, of course, but he certainly can look the part of ‘angry, abandoned, bard’. It’s the part he’s been playing for the past few months as he’s waited for Geralt to realize his mistake. Except as the time has drawn on, thin and binding, he’s realized that remaining calm about it all is a lot harder than he’d expected. 

“Well, if he finds me so important so as to have a scoundrel like yourself looking out for me,” Jaskier leans in close, close enough to smell the musk on the witcher’s skin, and the mint on his breath, and jabs a thumb right at the center of his armored chest. “Tell him. He can tell me so. Himself.”

Mr. Scary Witcher seems to have gotten the hint. A hand rises to cup his ass and pull him closer. Jaskier can feel his dick through the tight leather that apparently must be witcher guild regulation. He can feel that it’s a big one too, and the thought gets little Jaskier more than a little excited at the thought of having it inside of him, or in his mouth, or… 

“Or how about we not speak of Geralt for the rest of the night? I’m sure there are better uses for a mouth like yours.”

Are all witchers horrible at flirting, or just the ones Jaskier runs across? Doesn’t matter, he supposes. As long as they’ve all got those eyes, and an ability to kill a man with the flick of one’s fingers, Jaskier doesn’t give a shit.

“Sounds like a plan,” Jaskier breathes, leaning forward.

One hand rises to rest on those deliciously wide shoulders as the other reaches down to palm his dick. The witcher tastes just as good as Jaskier had imagined in those fifteen minutes between rescue and now. Like a coin flipping, as soon as Jaskier presses his tongue into his mouth, he shoves Jaskier back, one hand cupping Jaskier’s ass, while the other braces against the trunk of a tree. 

Jaskier is perfectly happy to be pinned there, rough bark pressed against his back, and a shit ton of Witcher against the front of him. As the witcher pulls away, he replaces his mouth with two callused fingers, watching smugly as he works them in and out of Jaskier’s mouth. Jaskier puts on a show, sucking and licking as if they were tasted of some delectable treat instead of sword oil and steel. The witcher tilts his head and gestures with his eyes at his crotch. 

Jaskier smiles, falling to his knees as he’s released, and unbuckles his pants one handedly, keeping his gaze level with the witcher’s pretty yellow eyes. In the moonlight, they reflect like a cat’s and Jaskier can’t help it when a shiver runs through him at the thought of being seen as prey. 

The witcher’s cock springs up to meet Jaskier’s open mouth. He doesn’t bother with preamble. He’s been running hot since before the fight, when he was flirting with the barmaid, and he’s sure that the witcher is much the same. He’s too much of a scowler for the fairer sex to approach on the regular, and Jaskier doubts, somehow, that he’s the type to spend much time at brothels. 

Jaskier takes the entire thing into his mouth, feels it touch the back of his throat, and swallows around it. The man groans. 

He could almost be Geralt, sounding like that, looking like that, sounding like that. Jaskier falls back, cupping his balls as he circles his tongue around the head. He moves his hand to grasp the witcher’s dick, and draws out every bob of his head until the witcher grows impatient and starts to fuck into his mouth with his preferred rhythm. When the witcher is about to come, he tries to pull back, but Jaskier can read a man just as well as he can play his lute, which is to say, masterfully. He pulls himself close, and swallows it all, keeping eye contact as a groan works it’s way through the witcher’s clenched teeth.

Jaskier pulls back, wiping his mouth on the sleeve of his red doublet, and stands, grinning.

The witcher opens his eyes and shoves him against the tree again. “Lambert.” He says, voice low and gutteral.

“What?”

“That’s my name. I want to hear you screaming it when I make you come.”

Jaskier swallows, shivering under the weight of Lambert’s predator like gaze. He presses forward, kissing the side of his face, and then trailing down to his mouth. Lambert let’s him, his other hand, the one not holding him aloft against the tree, slips into his breeches. Callused fingers brush against his hair, and then flick across the leaking tip before using his own moisture against him, rubbing liesurely up and down his dick. 

Jaskier keens, and loses his track of mind. His back arches as Lambert takes advantage of his distraction to address his neck, nipping and biting and kissing with the sort of passion hardly ever sent Jaskier’s way. That hand moves at the same infuritating pace, occasionally rising back to play with the tip, making the slide back down ever more slick. 

The hand squeezing his ass makes Jaskier want to take the time to prep, to do this properly, the way that he hasn’t done with another man in so long. 

“Lambert,” he pants, begging, though he’s loathe to admit it. “Lambert, please.”

“Ha,” Lambert pulls back for a moment, grinning smugly before licking a hot stripe up Jaskier’s neck. Jaskier can feel his breath, hot, despite the slight cool of his skin as he speaks. “You’ll come when I say you can, bard.”

“Fuck you.”

“Maybe later.”

The hand picks up pace, before slowing once more, and Jaskier is proud to say that he held on rather long against such a target assault. Jaskier spills into Lambert’s hand just as his name falls off his tongue a final time, his voice wrecked as if he had sung himself hoarse. 

Lambert holds him still a moment or so longer, allowing him welcome reprieve to make his legs work once more, and then releases him. 

Jaskier adjusts his breeches as Lambert pours water over his palm, and wipes it clean on a dirty rag. “Well,” Jaskier clears his throat, aware that the lingering hoarseness will likely make singing an impossibility for the next few days. “Thank you for the rescue, and the- that.”

Lambert tucks the dirty rag into a saddlebag, and then pulls out a bedroll. “You thank everyone who sleeps with you?”

“Well, no. Usually I’m the one getting thanked.”

Lambert gives him a look. Jaskier thinks he can translate it from Witcher to standard, and that it more or less means, ‘oh really?’.

“No, it’s just,” Jaskier clears his throat. “I didn’t think you would. And you really did save my ass back there. So I mean it. Even if you are a bit of an ass.”

“Hmph.”

Jaskier pulls his own from where it rests on the pile, and lays it down, arms crossed behind his head. Perhaps it’s the excitement from the fight leaving his blood. Maybe it’s the release, stronger than anything he’s felt in ages. Or maybe it’s just the familiarity of this; the camping, the witcher, the feeling of safety, or being excited for the days ahead. 

“You really should come talk to Geralt,” Lambert says. “He’s been moping for ages now, and it’s horribly boring to watch.”

“I don’t want to talk to Geralt.”

Lambert is quiet for a moment, but thinking so loud that Jaskier guesses what he’s going to say before he says it. “Travel with me, then. Heard having a bard around raises wages, gets you chased out of towns less. I imagine they still call you ‘the witcher’s bard’ anyway. Might as well make use of it.”

Jaskier thinks. He’s not doing much else. He’d spent time at Oxenfurt, teaching; had spent time in courts, gathering intelligence for Redania; and then had taken to the road. He’d not found what pleases him in any case. It was obvious why. For such a long time, he’d defined himself by his relationship with Geralt, by the unrequited love that had spurned on creative advances that had put him on the map; he’d defined himself by his friendship, just as much as he did by his lute.

He needs this.

Maybe Lambert sees that. Maybe he just likes having an easy lay, and moneymaker by his side. Even if this is one of the most obvious ploys to get him and Geralt to reconnect, well, Jaskier will take it. He’d prefer a fast death on the Path to the slow one which would’ve taken him otherwise. 

“Might as well,” Jaskier agrees. “Might as well.”

  
  
  



	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Focus on one project and actually finish? Nah, why would I ever make my life easier. Enjoy and don't forget to read and review!

It all happens rather fast.

Jaskier has just set down his lute, the cool chill of the condensation from his ale clinging to the flushed skin of his palm as he raises it to his mouth, when Lambert stands, draws his hand back into an easily telegraphed right hook, and knocks a brunette with dung on his boots flat on his back. Jaskier manages to take a long drag of it as a few others rise out of the mostly inebriated crowd. It’s not uncommon for a man to wear a sword, even just to go drinking with his friends at the same drinking hole he himself was conceived in; and those men draw their swords now, pointing them at Lambert’s smug face. 

Jaskier is used to this scene. It happened quite often, at least in the beginning when he was traveling with Geralt, when people were still quite eager to try their luck robbing a witcher after begging him to solve their problem. After Jaskier invested his time, efforts and considerable skills to giving Geralt the honor and respect he deserves, it became a less likely occurrence. Jaskeir had almost gotten used to a simple, non violent night. But apparently Lambert does not find warm meals and cool spirits agreeable. 

The dung boot man is out for the count, but his friends are not. One of them draws a throwing knife, originally intended for the dart board on the wall. Before Jaskier can think it over, as is becoming a trend, he tosses his drink at him, plastering his white tunic to his chest, and then aims the mug directly at his head. Red blossoms where the cup hit its mark, and suddenly the angered attention within the inn is split. 

Jaskier meets Lambert’s gaze. Lambert tilts his head slightly in what might be a nod. 

Jaskier jumps over the table, the neck of his lute grasped firmly in his hand, and slips past the drunkards to the open first floor window. He must say, learning to slither through thin spaces is one he’s learned through experience. Primarily through running from cuckolds, and castle guards, and more recently, monsters. Lambert presumingly heads through the front door. 

By the time Jaskier heads around to the stables, Lambert is already on his horse. 

A man in a wet tunic waves a kitchen knife threateningly as Lambert pulls him onto the saddle. The ass laughs as they kick off into the distance, leaving the angered patrons behind to choke on their dust. 

It takes an hour to find an abandoned farmhouse, or at least, one distant enough from the town to be safe to sleep in undisturbed for the night. By then, the adrenaline has worn off, and what’s left is a rather irritating mix of annoyance and anger. 

Lambert tosses his bedroll onto the pile of hay, and then falls back onto it, as if it were a cool lake on a nice summer day, folding his arms behind his head. He watches as Jaskier fusses with his lute, oiling and polishing it with a spare rag, and determinedly not looking in Lambert’s direction. 

“Isn’t it cold,” Lambert drawls, palming his dick through his trousers in what he must think is a seductive gesture. Jaskier is not looking, so it cannot work on him. “Over there, all lonesome with your lute, and just your right hand for company?”

“You must find yourself hilarious,” Jaskier says, rubbing harder. His rag squeaks. “Having brawled us out of a room and board, and out of  _ both  _ of our pay. No. No it is not cold, and no, I do not desire company, you utter, total and complete moron. What I want is some ale, preferably not of the piss poor variety and a real bed. But given that all you witchers seem to be short a marble-”

Lambert is standing now. Jaskier did not notice when we went from lounging to standing; the transitory movement must have happened when Jaskier was really, actually, not looking. It startles him, to look up and find him standing there, grinning, and not trying at all to hide how inhuman he truly is. 

Keeping eye contact with Jaskier, he unbuckles his swords, dropping the straps, scabbards and all, on the haystack by Jaskier’s feet. He smiles, canines glinting above his lower lip as he plucks the lute from Jaskier’s fingers, and sets it aside, gentler than he had removed his own belongings. 

Lambert leans in close, close enough to smell the meat they’d had earlier on his breath, and says, “How about I be all polite and civilized and make it up to you?”

“By conjuring a decent bed? Why, I had no idea you were capable of such acts of the magical variety. I could have added some more interesting stories than you lot waving your sword around every time.” Jaskier is careful not to say Geralt’s name, in the same way that Lambert is careful not to mention him. They are likely heading towards him even now, but this is a sweet interlude, and they both would prefer not to disturb it, for as long as possible. “That might be a start. I’d also like to order a bath and a- hey!”

Lambert’s face cracks under the weight of his smirk as he maneuvers Jaskier to his feet, and kisses him. His skin is warm, warm enough to make Jaskier forget for just a moment how angry he is, and as his hands wrap around his waist, drifting towards his ass, it’s almost enough to make Jaskier relent. 

But then he remembers what happened earlier that evening, and the warmth growing in the pits of his stomach is not nearly as warm as it had seemed before. 

He pushes at Lambert’s chest half-heartedly until he pulls away.

Lambert frowns annoyedly. “Really? Was the bed that big of an issue? You’ve fucked behind a chicken coop. Does this really offend your delicate sensibilities?”

“I will neither confirm or deny that first statement-”

“I saw you with your hands on her-”

“Irrelevant.” Jaskeir says, clearing his throat. “And no, I’m not really  _ that _ mad about the room. But if you wouldn’t mind elaborating why you started that brawl before collecting your pay?”

Lambert releases his grip. Jaskier, having not expected to have to support his own weight anytime soon, lands on his ass on the haystack. 

“Really?!”

Lambert shrugs, folding his hands behind his head once more. He kicks absentmindedly at a bucket left abandoned on the floor of the barn. “The alderman had men waiting outside the inn. I could hear them talking about all they could buy with their share.”

“That’s ridiculous.” Jaskier scoffs, setting his lute back into its case. He brushes a stray piece of hay off of it, and latches it shut. “It’s common knowledge that a few illiterate country bumpkins have no chance at offing you with their pitchforks and pointy sticks. Why bother?”

Lambert shrugs, and shoves his hands into his pockets. “They either overestimate themselves or underestimate me.”

“Tsk.”

“I overheard one of them mention using a different kind of pointy stick. On you. The details are fuzzy. I don’t like shite like that. They call witchers monsters and then think of their own cruel games to play. I-”

Jaskier lunges, sure of Lambert’s ability to catch him, and returns the kiss. Lambert tastes like lunch, and his teeth graze Jaskier’s lower lip with the same careful hunger he had stoked during his earlier flight. He shifts his stance, pulling Jaskier close as he maneuvers him against the wall.

“It’s rather sweet that you deem my honor worthy of brawling over. We could make a knight out of you yet, Lambert.”

“You gonna reward me with your favors, fair lady?”

Jaskier pauses, pretending to think about it as his hand drifts from Lambert’s waist to cup his dick. He already has an erection. Of course he does. With such an intoxicating companion such as himself, how could he not?

Jaskier tightens his grip, and then slips from under his arm, back to the stack of hay. Jaskier’s slept on worse, and fucked in places much shittier. Despite the low burn of arousal that remains in his gut, he ignores it, and tucks his bedroll behind his head. 

“Another day,” Jaskier says with a grin. “When you earn those favors, sir witcher.”


End file.
